The Undeserving Victor
by Wildmagic-Warrior
Summary: Haymitch Abernathy wasn't always a drunk. He wasn't always a pessimist, either. But being in the arena, living through that hell, it does things to you. Changes you. Makes you something you never thought you'd be. This is the story of a man who was so much less than a man, and the people- the person- who helped him to survive.
1. In the Beginning

_The voice was unfamiliar, and it was addressing someone else. _

_"Mrs. Abernathy?" _

_People only called his mother that when something was wrong. The rest of the time it was Charlotte._

_ The young boy pulled back his blanket and stood quietly, sneaking across the room in order to press his ear against the door. He was careful not to step on the squeaky floorboards, because if he did his infant brother would wake up and start squalling. _

_"I'm sorry, ma'am, but Christopher won't be coming home. There was a collapse in the mines." _

_The house was silent except for a quiet gasping sound. It was the first time Haymitch heard his mother cry. It wouldn't be the last._


	2. Moonshine

"Aren't you _ever_ sober?"

He knew that voice. Opening his eyes halfway, the mentor for District 12 looked blearily into the face that was glaring down at him. It took the man's hungover brain a while to figure out who he was looking at, but once it did he almost wished it hadn't. Effie Trinket was the last person he wanted to see at times like these.

"Sweetheart," he said, gripping the edge of the chair he had been sleeping against, "If I stopped drinking, the district's moonshiners would go out of business." He hauled himself to his feet, leaning against the chair for support.

Effie sighed and reached out to him, trying to adjust the lopsided collar of his shirt. Haymitch flinched away from the unexpected touch and the woman snapped, "For god's sakes, Abernathy, you're twenty-three years old. Hold still and let me fix it."

"I'm _fine,_" the man insisted, slapping her hands away. "Leave me be."

Effie glared daggers at him, but even in four-inch stiletto heels she still couldn't look him in the eyes. "Just make sure you look decent for the reaping this afternoon," she snapped, seeming to give up on trying to help him. She stalked away, and the part of Haymitch's brain that was still intoxicated wanted nothing more to reach out and slap her on the ass as she left. Then he took a look at her shoes, realized that she could put his eyes out with the heels, and told his brain to shut up.


	3. Sixteen

_Gold-red hair, cut ragged at the base of her neck. He ran his fingers through it, admiring the color. "I'm going to marry you someday," he whispered in her ear. She smiled, and elbowed him in the ribs._

"_Fat chance," she told him, and then laughed at the crestfallen look on his face._

"_I'm serious, Millie. I love you." _

_Turning her face towards his, she allowed him a quick kiss before standing up. "Happy sixteenth birthday, Haymitch."_


	4. The Birthday Party

"Good lord, Haymitch. You're worse every time I see you."

What time was it? The train from the Capitol wasn't supposed to arrive until noon. Rolling over onto his stomach, the mentor for District 12 reached out and groped blindly at his nightstand for his pocketwatch.

"It's half past twelve," the female voice informed him. "And I've got your watch."

Haymitch attempted to demand that she give it back, but the words came out garbled and incoherent. There was an exasperated sigh, and before he knew what was happening she had dealt him a stinging slap across the face. _That_ woke him up. With a muffled roar he began flailing about, trying to hit her back without much success.

She slapped him again, harder this time, and snapped "Brush your hair and put on some decent clothes. I'm not having you looking like- like _this_ at your own birthday party." Turning, the woman stomped out of the room.

"You're not my mother!" Haymitch called after her.

"You don't have a mother," she answered, slamming the door in his face. Through the wood he heard her add, "So somebody's got to fill in."

Standing there in a shirt and boxers, the mentor realized how glad he was that Effie had left right away. She'd never seen him cry, and now was not a good time to start. He wiped his eyes on the back of one hand, angry at himself for being so emotional. Then he went to his dresser and rummaged in it for a set of clean clothes.

He found a nice pair of trousers, a shirt he'd only worn once this week, and boxers that smelled fresh. As he pulled them on, the mentor wondered if Effie was forcing her Capitol accent just to annoy him or if it was just a result of being around people who spoke like she did. After all, there seemed to be no shortage of them in and around his house today.

In order to celebrate the fact that Haymitch was still alive ten years out of the arena, President Snow himself had arranged a special twenty-sixth birthday party. He had sent a whole train car of Escorts and Gamemakers, as well as enough food to feed every starving person in District 12 and then some.

Haymitch finished buttoning his vest and took a look in the mirror that hung on his wall. Brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes, he wondered why he even bothered. The face there never changed. Turning around, the mentor left his room and found that the president had arranged one last sadistic surprise.

"We're going to watch your Games!" chirped a pink-haired woman who was sitting on his couch. "Isn't that great?"


	5. Brothers Grim

"_Come on, Lucas, don't cry. It's almost time for the Reaping. We have to leave."_

_Still sniffling, the thirteen-year-old wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "What if they pick you, Haymitch?"_

_The older boy grabbed his brother's hand and tugged him out the door, replying "Don't be silly. My name's only in there a couple of times."_

_Lucas nodded, seeming comforted, and Haymitch felt suddenly awful about lying to him. In reality, his name was on thirty-one slips of paper._


	6. The Show Goes On

The screening room was dark and quiet; the only sound to be heard was the muffled ticking of a pocketwatch. The escorts had left several hours earlier and, when it became apparent that nothing interesting was happening, so had the mentors. All but one, that is.

Now he sat all alone in the shadows, face in his hands. The door at the far end of the room opened, making the man flinch slightly and look up.

A quiet voice called out, "Haymitch? Are you in here?"

The man didn't reply; there was a pause, and then the person walked into the room and closed the door. "I'm surprised you haven't drunk yourself into a stupor yet," she teased, but there was no cruelty in her voice.

"I plan to," replied the man, turning his head to look at her. There was a moment of silence, and then, "They're both dead," he stated.

"I know," said the woman, voice quiet.

Standing, the man ran his fingers through his hair as he added, "That little boy- he couldn't have been older than thirteen."

"I know."

He froze, staring at her for a moment before growling, "You _know_... You know, but you don't get it, do you?" He grabbed her by the shoulders so hard that she cringed as he shouted, "Twelve years, Effie! Enough tributes to populate and entire Games and not a single victor!" Letting go of the escort, he waved his arms at the televisions that hung from every wall as he added, "I can't keep doing this, year after year- I'll lose my mind!"

The woman laid a hand on his shoulder, murmuring "Haymitch-"

He flinched away, snarling "Don't touch me."

She ignored him and, instead of letting go, pulled the mentor into a tight hug. He struggled to get away, but when she refused to step back he gave in and just stood there with his arms hanging limply at his sides. She was a good six inches shorter than him, and so his chin rested on the top of her head.

He didn't even realize that he was crying until he spoke.

"I _tried_," he whispered, voice quavering.

"I know," murmured Effie, rocking him slightly from side to side like his mother had when he was younger, coming inside sobbing over a scraped knee. "I know."


	7. Reaping Day

_The sun beat down on the crowd that was gathered in District 12's main square. On any other day the cloudless sky might have been beautiful, but today was not any other day._

_Today was Reaping Day._

_Haymitch stood with the other sixteen-year-olds, sweating in his best suit of clothes. The trousers were stained, the shoes scuffed. The shirt was too big because it had belonged to his father, so he had been forced to roll up the sleeves. One of them had slipped down; as he fixed it, the young man glanced over at where his brother was standing with the other kids his age. Lucas had already made it through one reaping, and Haymitch hoped desperately that his name would stay safely at the bottom of the bowl for this one as well._

_His thoughts were interrupted as Honey Williams, the escort for District 12, burst onto the stage and grabbed up the microphone. "Happy happy Hunger Games!" she trilled, flipping her long blue hair over one shoulder with a shake of her head. "And," the woman chirped, "It's a very special_ _year! The second Quarter Quell!"_

_Haymitch let out a slow, shaky breath. Every twenty-five years, the Capitol designed a special hell for the tributes in order to remind the Districts of their crushing defeat. His mother had told him that, for the first one, people had been forced to vote for the girl and a boy who would be sent._

"_In order to help celebrate," Honey was saying, "I've brought the girl who is going to be your escort once I retire! District twelve, meet Effie Trinket!" _

_Interested, Haymitch stood on tiptoe in order to see over the heads of the crowd. Honey had her hand on the shoulder of a small girl with blond hair and a wide, nervous smile. _

"_Now," continued the escort, "Our illustrious leader is going to tell you all the theme for this year's Quarter Quell." The woman lifted a hand, and the anthem of Panem blared from the speakers. On the screen before the crowd, President Snow came into view._

_The man opened a box that sat on a pedestal before him, drawing out a pristine white card. "For the second Quarter Quell," he read, "In order to remind the people of Panem that for every Capitol soldier killed, two rebels died, each District shall offer twice the usual amount of tributes." _

_The screen went blank as horrified gasps rippled through the crowd. Effie looked frightened, but Honey tightened her grip on the girl's shoulder and smiled into the microphone as she said "May the odds be _ever _in your favor!"_


	8. Ignorance and Outrage

She was smiling.

At him.

Why was she smiling at him?

Wary, Haymitch watched the escort as she allowed a nearby Avox to take her bags. Once the mute servant had gone and the conductor closed the train car's door, the mentor spoke out. "What makes you so cheerful?" he asked, half-reaching inside his vest before remembering that alcohol was banned on the train before noon.

"I'm just happy to see you," replied Effie, taking the seat across from him.

"Liar," muttered Haymitch, keeping a bloodshot eye on the woman.

"Oh, _alright,_" sighed the escort. "Since you're just _dying_ to know, _I _got a _boyfriend._"

"About time," commented the mentor with a nonchalant wave of one hand, wondering if there was a way to drink himself blind without having to nurse a hangover the next morning. "You're what, thirty?"

With a squeak of outrage, Effie shot to her feet and searched vainly for something to throw at him. Finding nothing, she stomped away, revealing that the back of her neck was bright red.

"Wait, Effie," the mentor began, sitting up straighter. "I'm sor-"

She turned around and cut him off, snapping "Why can't you just be _happy_ for me, Haymitch?" Her voice had a hint of a quaver in it, but she seemed too furious at him to let herself cry. "This is the first good thing to happen to me in years and you're _ruining it!_" Then she whirled back around and stormed into the next train car, slamming the door with as much force as she could muster.

After a few moments of sitting in tense silence, Haymitch cursed quietly and fished his flask from inside his vest.


	9. Death Sentences

"_Ladies first!" chirped Honey, stepping forward. She reached into the glass bowl that sat on a pedestal to her left and pulled out a tightly folded slip of paper. She paused for a moment, perhaps trying to be dramatic, then put her other hand into the bowl and chose a second slip._

_It took a few seconds for the escort to unfold both papers. When she finally managed it, the woman smiled at the crowd and announced "Catelyn Jones and Maysilee Donner."_

_Haymitch let out a relieved sigh. Millie was safe for another year. He saw Maysilee's sister burst into tears as Honey helped the girls onto the stage and felt a bit sorry for her, but not much. He would much rather see the twins separated than have his girlfriend go to her death._

"_Now the boys!" Honey's voice was still cheerful, but her smile had grown broader and more forced._

_Crossing his fingers as the escort drew names, Haymitch repeated two words over and over in his head._

Not Lucas. Not Lucas. Not Lucas not Lucas not-

"_William Fitzgerald."_

_A murmur of pity rippled through the crowd; little Will was only twelve years old. The poor kid didn't stand a chance._

"_And Haymitch Abernathy."_


	10. Midnight Train Going Anywhere

Haymitch opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake. He didn't have to look at the clock to know that it was the middle of the night, and a prickling instinct told him that something was wrong.

Silently, without moving, the man took a mental inventory of all the things that _hadn't_ changed. The train was still moving. Nobody had come into his room, or the lights would have turned on. Nightmares sometimes woke him, but this time that was not the case. With all of those things checked off his list, the mentor had no idea what could have awakened him.

That's when he heard it. A soft sound, almost impossibly soft, but it was there.

Out of habit, Haymitch grabbed the knife from the table beside his bed as he stood up. For a moment he paused, wondering just when it had become habit to sleep with a knife nearby. In the Arena, or the years after? He couldn't remember.

And… that sound. It was almost inaudible, what with the noise of his own breathing, but he knew that it was still there.

Haymitch stepped out into the hall that separated his cabin from Effie's, listening hard. To the mentor's surprise, the sound seemed to be coming from the escort's room. He crossed the hall in two short steps and pressed his ear against the woman's door.

Now that he was closer, the man could tell that the noise was a muffled sort of gasping.

Suddenly he was somewhere else; a different time, a different place, listening to a different woman cry. He was four years old again, eavesdropping on a strange conversation and not comprehending the fact that his father would never be coming home.

This time, though, there was something he could do.

The mentor opened the door as quietly as he could, peering into a room that was as dark as the hallway in which he stood. After a moment he stepped in, closing the door behind himself as he knelt to put his knife down on the floor.

"Who's there?" snapped Effie's voice, sounding distinctly ragged.

"Who do you think?" replied Haymitch, stumbling forwards until his outstretched hands banged against the footboard of a bed. "What's wrong, Effie?"

"_Nothing,_" the woman insisted, voice quavering.

"My ass," muttered Haymitch, quietly. He felt his way along the bed until he was able to sit down on it without falling. "Just tell me," he added softly, reaching out into the darkness. He found Effie's hand and squeezed it gently, trying his best to be comforting.

"My aunt just called," choked Effie, hand trembling. "It's my dad-" Her voice broke and she sobbed, "He's real sick, the doctors say he won't last long, and I can't be with him because I'm on this stupid train picking up these stupid kids and bringing them to die!"

Without saying another word, Haymitch put his other arm around Effie's shoulders and held her close to him as she cried.

The morning would find the mentor wide awake, still holding the sleeping escort in his arms.


	11. A Mess of Dialogue

_After the Reaping, time blurred into a mess of voices and bright Capitol colors._

"_Five minutes, Tribute."_

"_Haymitch! You can't go!"_

"_I have to, Lucas. They drew my name. I have to go."_

"_But I don't want you to!"_

"_Hey, kiddo, it's okay. Just promise you'll remember me. Maybe on my birthday, stop for a second and say, 'I used to have an older brother.'"_

"_No! You'll come back. You're good with knives and smarter than all of them! You'll beat everybody and come back, I know you will."_

"_I'll try, Lucas. I promise I'll try."_

"_Haymitch…"_

"_Goodbye, mom."_

"_Honey, I love you so much."_

_"I know, mom. Try and make sure Lucas doesn't take any tesserae."_

"_I'll do my best."_

"_Haymitch!"_

"_How does it feel to kiss a dead man walking, Millie?"_

"_Don't you dare tease me! You're coming back, I know you are."_

"_Maybe."_

"_Oh, Haymitch-"_

"_Don't cry, Millie. Please don't."_

"_Oh, god, Haymitch, don't you dare die out there."_

"_I'll try not to. But, hey, if I don't make it, good luck trying to find somebody handsomer than me to marry."_

"_You time is up, Tribute."_

"_You're… Haymitch?"_

"_That's right. And you're Maysilee."_

"_Sure am. Maysilee Donner."_

"_This is it."_

"_The Capitol?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Finally."_

"_I'm Mabel Locksmith, your stylist. Come with me, you four."_

"_Ugh. Why _diamonds_?"_

"_Because, Hayden-"_

"_Haymitch."_

"_Yes, you. Because coal under pressure becomes beautiful and unbreakable."_

"_Oh."_

"_So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"_

"_I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."_

"_An eight! Haymitch, you did really well!"_

"_Whatever, Maysilee. You got a nine."_

"_This is it, boy."_

"_Mabel, thank you. For everything."_

"_Survive long enough to say that again, and maybe you won't want to. Good luck, Haymitch Abernathy. You'll need it."_


	12. The Voice

His breath stank of alcohol. How long had it been since he last brushed his teeth? When he couldn't come up with a reliable answer, the part of his brain that still cared about personal hygiene shrieked in disgust. Anything was better than breathing in the cloying smell of Capitol perfume, though. His personal suite stank of it. He could reliably tell how long it had been since he had arrived with the year's tributes by the smell of the room. He could usually get rid of the sickly, flowery scent by the fifth or sixth day.

Inhale, exhale.

Alcohol on his breath, on his teeth, on his tongue. It really _was _disgusting.

Rolling over onto his back, Haymitch Abernathy slid out of bed and moaned in anguish when the morning sunlight made contact with his half-open bloodshot eyes.

Squinting, the mentor stumbled blindly around the suite, searching for the dark respite of the bathroom. As he bumped and banged into chairs and tables, he swore he could hear a voice in the back of his head. It was laughing at him, and goddamnit, it sounded just like Effie Trinket.


	13. Countdown

_The countdown began at ten. Haymitch took a deep, shaky breath, and admitted that his plan to stay calm wasn't going to work. In an attempt to distract himself from his own impending demise, the young man took a moment to admire the landscape. He might have called the arena beautiful- that is, if he wasn't about to die in it. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, the grass around the Cornucopia greener than was natural._

_Five._

_Haymitch tensed, clenching his fists and feeling fingertips slip over sweaty palms._

_Four._

_To his left was a huge girl, built like a brick house. Her brown hair had been hacked short and she looked like she could crush him with her bare hands._

_Three._

_On his other side was a tiny slip of a girl with bright red hair that curled down to her waist. It rippled as she shivered and Haymitch was suddenly reminded of Millie. He hoped his death wouldn't be too gruesome; there were some things he would never wish on anyone, much less his girlfriend or family._

_Two._

_Lucas would have to learn how to steal, now that his older brother was gone. Either that or sign up for tesserae. Stealing was safer; having a few fingers lopped off by a Peacekeeper beat putting extra slips of paper in the Reaping bowls._

_One._

_Oh, god. How had it come to this? He didn't want to die. He was only sixteen years old, after all. He had a mother, a brother, a girlfriend! A house, a home, a way of life. How could he give that up? No, he didn't want to, no, NO!_

_BOOM._


	14. Haircut

"No! No, Effie, stop it, I don't want to-"

"Haymitch Abernathy, sit still and stop being such a baby! It's just a haircut." The shorter woman shoved him back into the chair and came at him once again with her scissors. The mentor tried to squirm away, but Effie locked her hand around his shoulder and snapped, "You can let me cut your hair or you can wiggle until I accidentally stab out your eye."

Haymitch let out an angry sigh and slouched forward. The escort's grip tightened, forcing him to sit up straight.

_Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip._

"There," said Effie, voice smug as she let the man go. "Isn't that better?"

"No," muttered the mentor petulantly, looking himself over in the mirror. "It's too short."

"At least I didn't shave you bald," Effie quipped with a slight smile, putting the scissors back into her makeup bag.

Haymitch stuck his tongue out at the woman, but her back was turned and she didn't see.


	15. Let the Games Begin

_The cannon fires, signaling the start of the Games, and Haymitch's brain shuts down. He's running on pure instinct now, darting forwards while a good number of the other Tributes are still mesmerized by the beauty of the Arena._

_He's one of the first to reach the Cornucopia, shoving a smaller boy out of the way in order to snatch a medium-sized backpack. There's a bigger one at the top of the pile, but climbing for it will make him an obvious target._

_Turning around, Haymitch makes for the thick forest as fast as his legs will carry him. A tall girl with dark hair and darker intentions comes at him from the right with a snarl and a sword, but she screams and drops as one knife and then another slam into her back._

_Haymitch stops for a split second to retrieve the knives, eliciting another tortured shriek from the girl, but there's no time for sympathy. He doesn't even bother wiping the blades clean as he takes to his feet again._

_The sound of the bloodbath falls behind as he enters the tress, and he slows to a fast walk in order to listen for anyone who might be following him. That's when he notices something strange about the forest: it is completely, utterly silent. There are no signs of life, not even birdcalls or the rustling of leaves._


	16. Nightmares

He drank to escape the nightmares. Sometimes, though, he emptied one too many bottles, and that's when they were at their worst. His mind called up things both real and imaginary, and refused to tell him the difference.

This time they were especially bad, because he knew that what he was seeing was the truth. Blue butterflies stinging a little District Twelve boy to death, a mountain drowning five Careers in liquid fire, a heavyset boy with a knife stabbing a girl with red hair over and over and over-

Then things changed. Strange muttations emerged, ones with the bodies of animals and the faces of people he knew.

Lucas was a giraffe, looking down on him from the top of an overextended neck.

His mother came forward as a dog, a boxer with huge paws and a stubby tail.

Millie turned out to be a cardinal, but then she morphed into a Jabberjay and screamed at him; _"Murderer!"_

"_I'm not!" _Haymitch sobbed in reply. _"I never killed anybody!"_

"_Liar!"_ shrieked the Millie-Jabberjay. _"Tributes! Lucas! Your mother! ME! Liar! Murderer! Murderer!"_

Haymitch crumpled to his knees and the nightmarish muttation disappeared, leaving the hallucinating man alone in a dark forest.

Then somebody came towards him out of the trees, and he scrambled to his feet as soon as he could make out who it was. _"Maysilee!" _he cried, and she smiled broadly at him.

"_Right you are," _she replied, propping her fists on her hips.

"_But you're dead," _Haymitch told her, faltering slightly.

"_Do I look dead to you?" _she asked him, raising her eyebrows amusedly.

"_No,"_ admitted the mentor with a smile. His happiness faded, however, when a drop of blood rolled down from the hollow at the base of Maysilee's throat and stained the collar of her shirt.

"_What's wrong, Haymitch?" _she asked, seeing his expression.

More blood was welling up now, in a trickle and then a stream. It ran down her neck, turning her grey shirt black. Maysilee put a hand to her throat, looked straight at Haymitch, and screamed as she exploded into a flock of candy-pink birds.

The mentor collapsed as they flew by him, and for a long time the forest was silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing.

Then, from his left, a familiar voice called his name. He turned his head to look, and a pink lioness with Effie Trinket's face came walking out of the trees.

This was new, and frightening; she had never appeared in his nightmares before. Suddenly, a horrifying thought came to him. What if she was here because she was dead, too?

The Effie-lioness called his name again, and the mentor turned away from it. He didn't want _her _to haunt him, not when he already had his family and girlfriend walking the alcohol-soaked corridors of his mind.

"_No," _he called, putting his hands up to cover his eyes. _"Go away. I didn't kill you."_

There was a pause, and then the lioness said, _"Of course you didn't. I'm still alive. And you have to wake up, right now, or I might not be able to say the same for you."_

The nightmare lapsed into merciful darkness after that, and time lost meaning for a while. There was no light, no thought, no pain. Only silence.

And then Haymitch opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back, staring up at the grey ceiling of his room. He blinked, slowly, and began to become aware of things around him. For instance, somebody had put a wet washcloth on his forehead. Turning his face slightly to the left, he saw that the overstuffed armchair in the corner was occupied. Not by his mother, like it had been when he was ten and stayed home sick from school, but by another woman.

Petite.

Blonde.

Effie Trinket, but without a wig or makeup.

She had her knees tucked up to her chin and her eyes were closed.

Haymitch smiled weakly. She looked so calm when she was sleeping, as opposed to the frantically obsessive stick-to-the-schedule prickler he saw on Reaping Day every year.

He didn't want to wake her up, but the roof of his mouth felt like sandpaper. He needed water, desperately. When he tried to sit up, though, searing pain cracked through his skull and forced him to lay back with a tortured moan.

Effie jumped a bit and looked around at him guiltily, like she hadn't meant to fall asleep. "Hey," she said, quietly.

Haymitch tried to speak, but his throat wasn't working properly. He licked his lips, winced as the cracks in them stung, and tried again. "Water," he croaked. "Please."

Effie slid out of the chair and reached for something on the floor. As she came towards the bed, Haymitch saw that it was a glass with liquid sloshing inside. The escort sat next to him and put the cup to his lips, tilting it up so he could gulp the water.

When it was gone he whispered, "Thank you," glad that he had his voice back.

"I came down because people were saying that they hadn't seen you in a while," Effie told him in a functionally conversational manner.

Haymitch pretended that he couldn't hear the discreet worry in her voice. "Didn't feel like talking to people," he replied simply.

"Six days," the escort informed him.

"Didn't start drinking 'till the fifth," replied the man, almost defensively.

"And when I found you in here, you were lying on the floor, hardly breathing!" snapped Effie, raising her voice enough that it made Haymitch's brain throb painfully. "You were so dehydrated that I thought you were going to die! You were obviously hallucinating, too. Screaming and thrashing-" She stopped, raising both hands to cover her face. Then she put them in her lap and took a deep breath before asking, "What were you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

The look the mentor gave her was answer enough.

"Oh- _Haymitch,_" she murmured sadly, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his cheek. "Didn't you think anyone would notice?"


	17. Friends and Foes

_Haymitch saw the boy from his hiding spot among the trees, and frowned. He recognized the kid; it was little Will, the other male Tribute from District 12. But… what on earth was he doing? He was running, obviously, but it wasn't quite right. His path was erratic, like he was chasing something that Haymitch couldn't see. And he was heading straight for a patch of brightly colored flowers._

"_Will, don't!" cried the older boy, forgetting himself and stepping out of the forest. Thos flowers were beautiful, but also deadly if their scent was inhaled too directly. _

_Will stopped and turned around, smiling broadly at Haymitch. He held out his hands, and perched on them was a gorgeous butterfly whose wings were a deeper blue than the sky._

_For a moment, Haymitch was almost tempted to step forwards and get a better look at the insect. He hesitated, and that's what saved him._

_A blue cloud rose from the flowers, covering Will from head to toe. The little boy screamed, and screamed again, and then collapsed onto the grass._

_A cannon fired as Haymitch took a frightened step backwards, but by then the cloud of butterflies had dissipated. The young man could clearly see Will's body, not that it looked much like a child any more. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in dark blue welts._

_The last male tribute from District 12 stepped back as a helicraft dropped down a massive metal claw to retrieve the small corpse from where it lay curled and twisted on the ground._

_Over the noise, he didn't hear the three boys that came up behind him. His lapse in concentration almost cost him his life; one of them shoved him down and dealt him a hefty kick to the stomach. He was about to stomp on Haymitch's neck, but the younger boy rolled over and slashed the back of his leg with a knife. The kicker dropped with a scream, hamstrings severed, and his friend rushed forwards with an axe. Haymitch rolled over again with a grunt, fighting to get his breath back, and scrambled to his feet._

_The boy with the axe swung it hard, like he was trying to fell a tree, and Haymitch dodged out of his way. Before the boy could recover from his swing, the District 12 tribute had cut in close and sunk his knife into his stomach. Coughing up blood, the boy with the axe toppled over and convulsed on the ground._

_Haymitch drew his second knife and was halfway turned around when the third boy's fist connected with the side of his head. The younger boy hit the ground hard, rolling onto his knees and trying to see past the blurs in his vision. A booted foot thumped into his chest, sending him sprawling again. Haymitch tried to sit up, but the heavier tribute knelt on his ribcage and forced the air from his lungs. He put his foot on Haymitch's arm, grinding in the heel and forcing him to drop his knife._

_The boy who had knocked him down was from District 10, and the expression on his face was discomforting, to say the least. He was sizing Haymitch up, like a pig for slaughter._

_In his effort to pretend like he wasn't about to die, Haymitch snapped, "That knife isn't a cleaver, idiot. Stop holding it like one." The District 10 tribute snickered darkly and lifted the blade, about to slit his victim's throat. Suddenly he went stiff, emitting a strange gurgling sound as his eyes rolled up in his head. Then he toppled over, freeing Haymitch, whose first move was to take back his knife._

_As he stood up, he fought to see a reasonable explanation for what had just happened. Perhaps a slow-acting poison had been spread through his opponent's body by his increased heart rate, and finished him off at the last second? And then, of course, Haymitch spotted the feathered dart protruding from the back of the dead tribute's neck._

_Jerking around, he looked for the source and saw Maysilee Donner exiting the forest with a blowgun. He held up his knife, even though he knew that it would offer little protection from the deadly projectiles._

_Maysilee laughed, then slipped her blowgun into a holder on her back and crossed her arms. Her tribute token- a mockingjay caught midflight in a ring of gold- glimmered briefly in the sunlight as she stated "Saved your ass, Abernathy."_

_Haymitch grinned at her, then stooped to collect his knife from the belly of the tribute he had stabbed. _

"_We'd live longer with the two of us working together," Maysilee noted._

"_I guess you just proved that," replied Haymitch, wiping the blood from the blade on the leg of his pants. "So, allies?"_

_Maysilee nodded, and the two tributes shook hands as a cannon fired three times._


	18. Luggage

Haymitch had always assumed that the only thing that could keep Effie Trinket from arriving on schedule was her own untimely death. So, naturally, he was a bit concerned when she didn't show up at the Justice Building when she said she would.

Not that he was worried, of course. Effie was a grown woman, and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Even if the train crashed. Or was robbed. Or-

Haymitch decided that he would wait at the station instead.

The bullet train from the Capitol arrived three hours behind schedule, pulling in at something past midnight. Haymitch jerked awake at the sound of the whistle and stood up from the bench he had been sitting on, rubbing his arms in an effort to warm them. It may have been summer, but the nights were still chilly.

The mentor watched as an Avox hopped down from the front of one of the passenger cars and opened the door. The mute servant then stood aside, waiting patiently as Effie hauled herself and two large suitcases out onto the platform.

Haymitch stepped forward, and his unexpected appearance elicited a shrill squeak of terror from the escort.

"It's just me," laughed the man, holding up his hands in mock surrender. She smiled, but Haymitch noticed that her arms were shaking. Either he had scared her more than he had meant to, or her suitcases were way too big for her to carry. Without really thinking about it, the mentor grabbed the one that looked heaviest and slung it over his shoulder.

"Let me walk you to the Justice Building?" he asked, but it wasn't really a question.

Effie took her other case in both hands, frowning thoughtfully at the taller man. Then she laughed quietly before smiling up at him and answering, "Thank you, Haymitch. That's very kind."


	19. The Beginning of the End

"_Alright, Haymitch, hold up." Maysilee had halted in her tracks and planted her fists on her hips. "I'm not going another step until you tell me what we're looking for."_

_Haymitch stopped walking and turned around, trying to look like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Well," he answered, "The arena has to end somewhere, right? It can't go on forever."_

_Maysilee raised her eyebrows at him. "So… what? We're just going to keep walking until we find the edge?"_

_Haymitch smiled blithely. "That's the idea."_

_Maysilee frowned, crossing her arms. "And then what? What do you expect to find?"_

_Haymitch shrugged. "Maybe there's something we can use."_

_Maysilee shook her head in disbelief. "You're insane."_

_Haymitch laughed at her, cocky enough to believe that his harebrained scheme would work out for the better. "Desperate times, desperate measures. Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"_


	20. The Volunteer

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The shouted words reverberated inside Haymitch's hungover brain like a painful drumbeat. He hadn't been paying much attention to the Reaping- hell, he hadn't even been sober at one in years- but this time, something odd was happening. Effie and the mayor argued for a moment, and then a tall girl with dark brown hair stepped up onto the stage as a smaller child kicked and screamed in the arms of a broad-shouldered young man.

Haymitch sat up in his chair as the scene unfolded, thoughts and memories clicking together inside his head. History- _his _history- was repeating itself in a very unsettling manner.

With that, the mentor's hangover dissipated. He knew exactly what was going on, and he hated it. Hated it more than he hated himself, which was saying something. There had to be a way, some little thing he could do, one last big "screw you" to the Capitol and the president and the games.

Haymitch stood up. He put a wobble in his step as he walked forwards, but the people of District 12 didn't need any extra convincing that he was an old drunk. It was Snow that he was worried about.

He saw Effie glaring at him as he slung an arm around the Volunteer's shoulders, but at this point he couldn't care less about the escort's opinion of him.

"Look at her!" he cried to the crowd, giving the girl he was manhandling a rough shake. "Look at this one!" What was her name? Effie had read it off, but he hadn't been paying attention. This girl was in the Hob sometimes, selling meat to Greasy Sae. Catnap. Catnip. Katniss. Yes, that was it. Katniss Everdeen. "I like her!"

Her last name rang a bell. Hadn't her father died in some sort of mine explosion? Haymitch hoped that the tragedy had made her resourceful; she'd need a skill like that in the Arena.

"Lots of…" the mentor couldn't think of the right word to describe the girl. Courage, for volunteering? Or desperation, as a last-ditch attempt to save her sister. Loyalty, maybe? It could also be described as 'suicidal tendencies'. "…Spunk!" he finished. Yes, that summed it up.

Releasing the young woman, he stepped to the front of the stage and gestured at the crowd with both arms. "More than you!" he shouted. Turning towards the nearest camera, he pointed directly at the lens and repeated himself. "More than you!"

Then, because public humiliation was the only way to escape the President's wrath, the mentor made a grand show of tumbling off of the stage. He laid face-down in the dirt, trying his best to look unconscious. Only after two Peacekeepers rolled him onto a stretcher and wheeled him away did Haymitch allow himself a small, quiet smile.


	21. Chapter 21

_**[Author's Note: sorry for such a long delay! I completely ran out of muse. But I watched the Hunger Games movie earlier this evening, and it got me in the mood to continue writing this.]**  
_

_"Haymitch, there's nothing here."_

_"Yeah, I can see that. Thanks for pointing out the obvious."_

_"This was _your _idea, remember."_

_"Shut up."_

_Maysilee reached for the blowgun strapped across her back like she intended to beat him with it, so Haymitch quickly made his apologies. "I just mean that there still might be something here," he said. "We have to keep looking."_

_Maysilee shook her head. "I'm really sorry," she said, "But there aren't that many kids left in the Arena, you know."_

_Haymitch turned to her, shocked, then realized what she was talking about. He fell into a fighter's crouch, reaching for his knives. He should have seen this coming- Maysilee was smart, she'd want to eliminate the competition, it was no wonder she had followed him all this way._

_"I didn't mean it like _that_," snapped the girl. "I'm not out to kill you, I promise." To prove it, she took her hands away from her weapon. "I just don't want it to come down to you and me, you know?"_

_"I guess," replied Haymitch, trying to sound nonchalant._

_"So I think it's high time that I left," Maysilee added, sounding notably despondent._

_"Yeah, I think so, too," said Haymitch, hearing the gloom in his own voice and wondering when he'd gotten so soft._

_"I'd say 'see you on the other side'," added Maysilee, "But I really hope that only one of us dies today."_

_Haymitch smiled slightly, and muttered, "May the odds be _ever _in your favor."_

_Maysilee grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and walked away._


End file.
